The Heart Circus
by baylop
Summary: Mrs. Stavros loves her son. But only a certain version of him.


**Note:** So Ziley is over, Zane won't be seen again until the grad episode (Oh look, I'll dance in a white tux and get a diploma! See, the writers do care!), and Riley…well. I have no idea. He has his _lovely_ parents and only Anya to talk to. And he's off to Eastern alone. That's nice. Mostly, I just feel silly for getting so invested in this ship and these characters. I got sucked back into Degrassi because of them. _The_ _Boiling_ _Point_ made me think they would continue to have a decent presence on the show. Since then, it's been long stretches where they don't appear and then come back for an episode or two. And now they're done. The writers actually created a _valid_ excuse not to show them anymore. Riley no longer needs plots because his token-gay role is nearly done (aka A Very Special Degrassi Episode: My Sexuality and the Angst it Causes!). Zane no longer needs to be present at all.

Anyways, I'm not very happy, as you can tell. But whatever, it's all fictional and supposed to be fun. So here is my follow-up to "A Nice Greek Girl", though there's a slight overlap. You'll see. It still features Mama Stavros (hooray!) and the dreaded second person, because at this point, I think it'd be weird to change it.

* * *

><p>The first time you meet Zane, it's the second week of December—and it's entirely unexpected.<p>

You're on your way out, purse slung over your shoulder and eyes plastered to your watch, when the front door unlocks. And you assume it's just your son coming home from school, but the mass of shuffling feet causes you to look up. And when you do, you're greeted by Riley, Anya…and _him_. Someone new.

"Ah, well, who do we have here?" you ask, raising an eyebrow. It's a little intriguing, because you've met so _few_ of Riley's classmates in person.

Your son seems oddly nervous, almost frozen, and after a few seconds of Riley standing around awkwardly and you looking at him expectantly, _waiting to be introduced_, the other boy steps forward.

"Mrs. Stavros, I don't believe we've met. I'm Zane," the boy says with a lopsided grin, extending a hand.

His fingers are cold as they clasp yours. His eyes are simply _striking_.

And your first impression is that he is friendly. Calm. Polite—certainly more so than Peter or Owen or any of the other boys who have ever visited.

"It's always nice to see that Riley has made a new friend," you welcome, returning the boy's smile.

And at that, Anya and Zane share a look.

"Well, Zane's _sort of_ new," Anya starts, before quickly shaking her head like she's decided against something. "I mean, uh…Riley? Want to jump in here?"

She clears her throat and nudges him to speak up. And finally, Riley seems to snap out of his silent daze. "Yeah Ma, I've…I've known Zane for a while. We're good friends. Not…new friends. I mean, _newer_ than me and Anya, but still…around…for a while. Yeah. Anyways, I thought…Ma, I thought you were going to be visiting Uncle Paul and Aunt Margo today? Your car…"

"Is being fixed," you say with a shrug. "Your father is picking me up. But don't tell me you were hoping I'd be out of the house? Not that I don't trust you, of course."

You wink.

"No, it was…just a bit of a surprise," Riley says, gingerly rubbing the back of his neck.

You eye the three of them carefully, clustered like grapes in the entranceway with their backpacks slung. You nod. "So you plan on having a study session tonight?"

You hear a car honk twice from outside—your husband. Time to go.

"For finals," Anya explains, ushering the boys into the living room. "Calc and physics are gonna be killer."

"But it was nice meeting you," Zane calls, seemingly amused by Anya's forcefulness. He manages to wave goodbye before being pulled out of your sight, along with your son, who still seems a bit flustered. Panicked, even?

But you pay it no mind. Because why would your son need to worry?

_Zane seems like a nice boy_, you think, stepping outside and into the crisp winter air. _Hope he sticks around_.

Because your son could always use more friends.

And a girlfriend.

(But that always goes without saying.)

.

On the news, you hear about the incident at the Vegas dance. Concerned, you call your son, and have a mild panic attack when it takes him so long to answer the phone.

"Ma?"

"Where are you? Are you hurt? What happened? What are you doing? Aren't you coming home?"

"Whoa, whoa, slow _down_," Riley says, panting heavily. "I'm fine. Guess it made the news?"

"Of course," you nearly shout. "I was worried. Where—"

"I'm out of the school. Some guy stabbed a wall and got taken away. That's it. So…so I'll be home later, okay?"

"Are you in pain? You sound out-of-breath…"

In the background, you hear what sounds like muffled laughter, followed by a loud smack.

You raise an eyebrow. "Is someone else there with you?"

"Just…just some friends. We're uh, getting dinner. But I'll come home right after."

You smile. "Alright. So how did it go with the girl?"

There's a slight pause. "It uh…it didn't work out. But hey, it happens right? No big deal."

"I suppose," you sigh. The once-promising night has been completely ruined, but you try to sound positive despite your discontent. "Someday, you'll find the right girl. I know it."

Riley laughs a little, still breathless. You can hear someone else talking in the background. "Right. Whatever you say, Ma."

.

As it turns out, you do see Zane from time to time. He and Riley study together. Sometimes, Riley brings him over to watch a game in your living room, and you hear their cheers and comfortable chatter as you do the bills in your kitchen.

You get the idea that Zane does very, very well in school, despite his constant humbleness.

You learn that he was on the football team with your son, as the kicker, and that he plays soccer.

You find out he's in the same grade as Riley and Anya, and idly you think about how _nice_ the three of them will look in their blue caps and gowns.

And as the winter break passes, and you see Riley grin as he bundles up before going out _yet again_, Zane becomes another Anya. Another Peter.

Someone you trust, grateful for their presence in your son's life.

.

Once back at school, you can't help but notice how Riley's grades have changed. Improved. And it's not like your son has been one to do outright _poorly_ (not like that Drew Torres boy, whose mother always seems to be griping about at PTA meetings). But there is a noted difference.

Riley seems more driven, diligent—eager to complete assignments and projects to free up his weekends. And not just to have more time at the gym, although there's always sports and training, _always_, _always_, _always_, but to see places and do things. Have a social life. And all of it, you realize—the happy mood and bright eyes and sense of adventure—reminds you of the past summer. You're back to summer Riley, not the shell of the young man that wandered aimlessly through your house during the fall.

You are glad for it, whatever the reason may be.

.

On a day in late February, Anya and Riley rush through the front door talking so excitedly that it's no wonder they don't notice you sitting in the living room.

"So am I like, supposed to know about different paintings and stuff? _Styles_?"

"Riley, stop worrying. These are new, _local_ artists. They'll be happy to talk all on their own. Just nod your head, smile, and when in doubt, say a piece is 'very interesting'. Be polite and you'll do fine. By going, you're scoring major points already. Trust me."

"But Thomas is going to be there and—"

"That's why you need to make a good impression. He and Zane are so close, after all."

"Anya…"

"Right! Shoot, sorry. Anyways, let's find you something nice to wear. Something arty."

"Yeah, because that's totally my scene…"

They rush up the stairs before you can even say hello, but you see that Riley's hair is a lot shorter.

It suits him.

.

"So did you have fun with your friends at that…art…show?"

Your smile is forced, because it makes no sense why Riley would agree to go to a thing like that. Art doesn't seem very masculine.

Riley glares at you before heading up to his room. "Not at all."

You nod. "Good."

Minutes later, Zane is waiting at your front door, and you let him in with a laugh.

"I don't think Riley had much fun today."

"Nope," Zane agrees. "It was kind of a disaster. May I see him?"

"Certainly."

You call Riley down, saying he has company, and you're mildly taken aback when Zane simply goes upstairs on his own, jacket slung over his shoulder.

But you brush it off. They always go to Riley's room to study. Perhaps they would enjoy something to eat.

So you go into the kitchen and look around. None of your own cooking is left in the refrigerator, and the shelves are mostly bare. It's definitely time to go grocery shopping.

You keep searching and find nothing suitable. The box of Pop-Tarts on the counter will have to do.

You hum softly as you go up the stairs, plate in hand. You don't bother to knock—you never have.

And with a wide smile, you swing open the door, greeting the study buddies and expecting books and papers to be strewn everywhere and—

Watching as Zane pulls his lips away from your son's, leaping off the bed.

Everything stops.

_Ma…what are you…doing? _

Yes. What _are_ you doing?

You blink, mouth like a fish on land, and grip the plate tighter to avoid dropping it. Panic sweeps through you. You sway. Look to Zane. You don't think you've ever seen him so mortified. Look to your son. See the fear in his eyes.

You breathe. Ever so gently, you set down the plate. Will yourself to form _words_.

"I'll just leave these here."

With a final glance in their general direction, you quietly leave the room. Walk.

And sit somewhere.

.

The footsteps you hear are too light to be your son's, careful padding across the wooden floor that is almost catlike. Without thinking, you look up and meet the brown eyes of the boy your son was…_pressed_ _up_ _against_. You are perhaps fifteen feet away from each other, and he seems to be on his way out, a hand resting carefully on the doorknob.

He's hesitating, and the look he gives you as he stands there is made up of many things.

There's the lingering embarrassment, a pink flush dusted across his cheeks, but there's also a protectiveness—like he's debating whether or not to leave or go back upstairs.

To where your son still is, assumedly.

Yet you see a hopefulness too, an innocence that crawls across his face, a silent _pleading_, and you can't…you won't…all you can think is _out, out, out_.

So you wish he'd just _leave_, and you're not sure how your own expression reads, but it's enough for him to nod before twisting the doorknob and stepping outside.

Whatever he sees in you, it's enough.

And you're not quite sure how to feel about _that_, so you don't feel—don't think—for the rest of the day.

It's simpler that way.

.

The morning brings a fresh start, you decide. You get up a little earlier than usual, spend a bit more time making breakfast. Kiss your husband goodbye as he leaves for work, and try to look relaxed. Nonchalant.

And then Riley calls you into his room. It's time. You bring him breakfast on a tray, hoping that he will just _eat_. Nothing more.

He says he's not hungry, so you ask if he's feeling well. You say he looks a bit pale.

And he does. Pale and miserable. And resolute.

"I was hoping we could talk about yesterday. When Zane was here and you walked in."

It disturbs you that he's trying for an actual conversation, but you don't let it show. You won't. You'll just play dumb. "Did you two get any studying done?"

As expected, he's thrown off by your response. "Studying…no. Zane left in a hurry."

You smile knowingly. That he did. And good riddance.

He squints at you. "You saw us, right?"

You know where this is going. And you're beyond surprised he's being so _insistent_. But so be it. "Yeah, you two goofing off."

"Ma, we weren't goofing _off_."

You say it certainly didn't look like he and Zane were doing homework, and hope to leave it at that. You tell him to eat, that he'll be late to school if he doesn't hurry.

And over his feeble protests, you leave his room in a rush.

You barely meet his eyes.

.

When you step into Riley's room as he's out for a run, the mess doesn't surprise you. Your son has always had the habit of throwing things around when he's in a rush, and since you're here, you might as well tidy up. You hate a sloppy house.

And it's all routine cleaning until you spot the (seemingly arranged) pile on the bed.

There are magazines, and at first you think of those bodybuilding-type things, but then you read some of the headings and your mind swirls and swims and curls upon itself. The open article, "Can You Be Gay and Still Play?", almost taunts you.

You don't read it.

Your face contorts into something ugly. And then fitfully, you scoop up all of those…_things_…and set them as far away from you as possible. Which only leaves the photographs. Five of them.

The first two are from the beach, probably the past summer judging by the length of Riley's hair. In one, Zane drapes an arm around Riley and Anya, pulling them close enough that their faces are touching, all bare skin and sunburn and smiles. In another, Riley sits languidly on a beach towel, knees pulled up to his chest and head resting on Zane's shoulder.

There's one taken after a football game, and in it, Anya poses in her cheerleading uniform, making a face at the camera while Riley and Zane stand behind her, mud caked across their jerseys. Their smiles couldn't be any wider.

The fourth photo is actually framed, though you've never seen it on any shelf in Riley's room. It's from the Vegas dance, because you remember the suit that Riley wore, and the corsage you bought for him to give to his date, his _girlfriend_ from the summer, and…

_Soon. You'll meet her soon._

It's a picture of Riley and Zane in matching tuxes, and the way your son is smiling at Zane leaves no doubt that he was Riley's date all along. That he was _with_ Riley all along.

The last is from the winter holidays, judging by the Christmas tree in the corner and gold tinsel strung along the walls. You see Peter and Anya and a number of other faces crowded together, some you recognize and most you don't. Your son has a hand wrapped around Zane's waist and another across his chest, so that they look almost fitted together. And it's all so very open.

Exposed. Carefree. Unabashed.

And he has no idea. Your son has _no_ _idea_ what he's doing. Your anger rises. That other boy has swayed him into something dirty and shameful and utterly _wrong_. He's come into your home, eaten your _food_, and somehow coaxed your son into thinking…into doing…

You start to wonder just how much they've done together. But really, it's beyond you to go down that road. Even hypothetically.

It physically ills you.

So you force a smile, making Riley's bed and flattening out the comforter. You stack everything neatly in the corner, tucking the loose photos at the bottom and the magazines at the top. You turn the framed picture face down, so you don't upset yourself further.

_So this is how it's going to_ _be_, you think.

You shut your eyes. It will take time. And effort.

But bad habits are meant to be corrected.

.

Of course, Riley tries to challenge you. He wants your reaction to his little _stunt_, for all of it to be addressed. The magazines, the photos, the…kiss. You see the determination in his eyes when he calls you in and thanks you for cleaning his room.

You're more than ready for him. Ready to deflect everything.

He asks if there's _anything_ _you_ _want_ _to_ _talk_ _about_, and you say that he should be grateful you still clean his room.

His face falls. You've won this round. "Anything else?"

Airily, you say nothing comes to mind. Tell him to shower before dinner.

And walking away, you're confident that your stubbornness will outlast his. Because it has to. It _needs_ to.

It's all you have.

.

Later, your husband comes home from work, ready to see the baseball game with your son. It's tradition, after all. But Riley isn't home.

You glance at the kitchen clock and see that it's still early. Riley has nothing to be tied up with, so you mentally go over all of the places he could be. All of the people he could be _with_.

And you keep coming back to the same damn face.

You could call your son. It's not like Riley has forgotten—he's been looking forward to this game for weeks now. You know that.

But the more you think about who he's probably with right now, the more you don't care.

"Riley changed his mind about the game," you tell your husband, folding your arms and shaking your head with fake regret. "Why don't you ask your brother instead?"

.

Riley does come home at a reasonable hour. He smiles warmly as he enters his room, where you're folding clothes. His cheerfulness is almost irritating. He asks about his father and the game, and you tell him he went with Uncle Paul.

And then he asks why.

You focus on the clothes. "I told him you wouldn't be interested, on account of…you know…"

"On account of…_what_?" he pesters, voice rising.

You frown. Why must he continue with this? What good will it do? "That you're going through something," you reason.

So he says that he still loves sports. That being gay doesn't change who he is.

And at that, your frown deepens. He knows nothing about what he's saying. Not a _thing_. It riles you into folding the clothes faster. How dare he. "You're not gay," you force out.

"You saw me making out with my boyfriend. I'm gay," he repeats, softly this time. As if the soothing tone will cushion the word. Like it's definite and final and irreversible and _you_ _won't_ _have_ _it_.

"It's a phase. You're young," you insist, folding even faster. "You don't know what you are."

He asks you to _just_ _listen_, placing a hand on your shoulder, and you shrug him off. You tell him you won't discuss it further. You turn to leave, unable to tolerate his presence any longer.

"When Dad comes home, we're all gonna sit down and talk about this."

You whip around, furious. Meet his eyes finally. He is still so _young_.

You say not to bother with it, because inwardly, you tell yourself it's a temporary thing. Mere experimentation. Something Riley will fall out of soon enough, once that _boy_ is out of the picture. Because there is no way that _your_ _own_ _son_ is—

"Mom," he pleads.

"DON'T!" you shout. He gives you a look of pity, but seems to back off.

And it's rare for you to scream at your son. But you're at your wit's end with this _foolishness_, so you hope it sinks in as you turn away and out of the room, storming bitterly down the hall.

Before your tears fall, hot and angry.

.

Weeks pass. You and your son don't speak.

Or rather, you don't speak to your son. Because you can barely look at him as it is.

He tries talking to you—about anything and everything. How your day was. How the garden you started is flourishing. How wonderful dinner is.

Whatever he asks, you can always answer in a few words. And each time, you know his face falls a little more. But the change you hope to force out of him never comes.

Because that _boy_ is still around.

True, he hardly comes over anymore, but that doesn't mean much. You know better—you assume Riley just works around your schedule. Because the evidence of Zane's presence in your home is always clear.

A sketch here, a photograph there. A book. A new necklace that Riley always wears.

Zane is always around, even when he isn't.

.

The week after Spring Break, you make plans to spend time with your sisters, but cancel when you start feeling unwell.

So you are not expected to be home. And you find them in the backyard, sitting on the porch in their school uniforms.

Eyeing them through the sliding glass door, you don't announce your presence.

You see Riley laugh at something Zane says, head tilted back. Zane scoots closer, leaning on his hands to whisper something in Riley's ear. Something that makes him blush.

You continue to watch as Zane takes a hand and runs it down your son's chest, until he's tugging at the edge of his blue polo shirt.

You can't hear a thing, but Zane's lips are so very easy to read.

_I love you so much. _

There's a part of you that wants to go out there and smack the both of them. Instead, you just turn away. Enter the kitchen and lean against the stove. Your stomach feels worse than before.

Minutes later, the two come inside. They're too busy being a tangle of limbs and mouths to notice you as they head up to Riley's room.

You hear the door shut, and you're pretty sure all of your emotions shut with it.

.

Mrs. Andropolous is an old friend of yours. Her daughter Athena goes to school on the other side of the city, and it's only for that reason that you've never tried to set Riley up with the girl.

But things couldn't be more desperate.

"I'm a swimmer," Athena explains, smiling sweetly. She's a very pretty girl. "It's what I'm good at. But when it comes to looking at schools…"

Her mother nods. "My husband and I want the best for her. But I'm clueless when it comes to these athletic things. Universities, scholarships…how did your son do it? I hear it's an American school. That's very impressive."

"We are very proud," you say dully. "I suppose Riley would be the best person to talk to about such things."

"I'd love to meet him," Athena says, shrugging a shoulder. "I mean, if it's okay with you, Mrs. Stavros."

You breathe deeply. You won't let yourself get excited just yet. "I'll be sure to mention it to him. But unfortunately, Riley is always so busy with school, sports, and his…his friends."

Mrs. Andropolous laughs brightly. "Ah, well, you know how boys are."

Your smile tightens.

.

In a few days, the opportunity presents itself.

Riley loiters in the car as you pull up to the front of the school. Mentions his birthday. Wants to celebrate.

"We'll see," you say, voice low.

He reminds you how he'll be leaving for Eastern soon. Asks if you'll be freezing him out until he goes.

And it's the first time he's called you out on your behavior. Angrily, you deny it.

(Something you're so very good at these days.)

"There must be something I can do," he says quietly.

You think for a moment, and then bring up Athena. You're sure to mention how he's probably too _busy_.

But Riley says he'd love to talk to her.

You look at him in slight disbelief. A genuine effort has been made. "I'll set something up for tonight," you say thickly.

"Tonight," he repeats, seeming hesitant. He looks away. You know that expression, know the source of it.

You glower at him. "She's a good looking girl, that Athena," you argue. "Unless you have _plans_."

Staring out the opposite window, you find Zane in his usual spot as he waits for your son. You see him shift a little on his feet, hands stuffed into his pockets. Your mouth twists unpleasantly.

"I'll cancel them," Riley breathes.

You turn to him. A warmth washes over you, a true satisfaction. You smile—the first he's seen coming from you in ages. "You're a good boy, Riley."

His expression is the strangest thing. "Anything for you, Ma."

.

It will be a date.

(But Riley doesn't need to know that.)

.

The next morning, you happily mention to Riley how Mrs. Andropolous had so many good things to say.

"You made a big impression on her daughter."

"Athena's a really nice girl," he says evenly. "Smart…"

"And easy on the eyes," you tease. Though you're fairly insistent.

"Yep. She is a looker."

You know your son well enough to see that everything he's saying is absolutely forced. No boy talks about a _girl_ like that anyways. But he's trying, and it's been so long since he has.

He's trying for _you_. And it's a start. One to be rewarded.

So you tell him your husband will be able to make it to his birthday dinner. Offer that he can invite a friend. Say that you'll make it a party.

A shocked laugh escapes him. "I love you, Ma," he says, leaning over to embrace you. "Thanks."

It is the first time you have allowed him to hug you in weeks. You pat his shoulder. "Don't let the boys at school hear you say that."

(By that, you mean showing affection to his mother.)

But later, you realize you meant showing affection to other _boys_.

You wonder if it dawns on him.

It probably does.

.

Riley says he'll meet you at the Dot for dinner—he doesn't come with you. Your husband finds that a bit bizarre, but you don't.

Riley's _busy_.

You invite Athena and her mother when you realize that Riley won't bother to. Taking a seat, there's a part of you that regrets extending the offer of inviting a friend. But it's too late now.

The four of you wait for Riley and his _guest_, and you hope it will be Anya. But looking out the window, you purse your lips.

Everyone else is too busy looking over their menus to spot them. But you do.

Naturally.

Across the street, Riley walks with Zane. Their fingers are intertwined, and as the people pass them by, they only get one dirty look.

You see your son say something to him. Zane's expression is unreadable.

You watch as Riley brings their linked hands up to his mouth, see the quick kiss he places there before letting Zane's hand go.

They both walk in trying to smile.

.

The dinner is nice. Your husband gives Riley an expensive watch, and you lovingly look on as he shows such pride in his son and his achievements.

"You play football, Zane?"

It's the first time your husband has directly addressed the boy all evening.

As always, Zane is humble. "Uh, just the kicker. Soccer's my game. I'm better with my feet."

You see how he focuses on your son. You grimace, and try to steer the conversation away from sports—you don't want him _speaking_. You say it bores Athena and her mother, but Riley points out that Athena's an athlete too.

Your husband says that if Riley and Athena have kids, they just need to pick a sport and they'll be set for life. There's quiet laughter around the table, but you watch as your son looks uneasily at Zane, and you feel the last bit of optimism falling away.

You are losing everything to that boy.

"Riley's girlfriend might have something to say about that," Athena says ardently.

And just like that, a small shred of hope returns, bursting through you like a firecracker. You find yourself clinging to it. "Riley, you have a girlfriend?"

Your voice is probably louder than it needs to be.

"Uh…yeah. She's really pretty."

"But you said things were complicated," Mrs. Andropolous prods.

"They sure are," Zane mutters, looking down before taking a careful sip of his coffee.

Silence spreads across the table. Everyone turns to look at him.

And you can't believe he has the gall to do this here. It's not his _place_ to be making a scene. The only reason he's even _present_ is because Riley for some reason can't seem to—

"She just needs to relax," Riley says.

"Does she now?" Zane asks with a hollow laugh.

After another heated silence, the boy thanks you and your husband for dinner and says he should go.

And for once, you're both in complete agreement.

He gets up to leave and Riley follows after him. They talk in hushed tones by the exit, and you consider it a victory that Zane actually goes out the door.

Even if Riley does linger a bit before coming back to the table.

Soon enough, pleasant conversation picks back up again. Everything is better. You eat your cake. Athena leans in close to your son—whispers _I'm_ so _sorry...I_ _didn't_ _know_—and you pretend not to hear it.

Because that would ruin everything.

You watch as Riley keeps glancing back at the door, and tell yourself it's better than having that _boy_ still in the room.

(But in actuality, you won't see Zane again for a very long time.)

.

"Well, I thought the party was splendid," you announce, clasping your hands. "Didn't you, dear?"

Your husband nods, punching Riley's arm as the three of you walk back to the car. "Definitely. Everything was perfect, except for the way that boy just got up and left. Seemed rude. What was his name again? Zane?"

Anxiously, you watch your son.

"He was a little uncomfortable," Riley murmurs. "He's…a great guy."

"Eh, seems a bit too _sensitive_ to me," your husband continues, waving a hand. "I hope all your friends aren't like that."

"No," Riley says as you reach the car. "Zane's one of a kind. Special."

You shut your eyes. Your husband casts your son an odd look, perhaps one that can be considered disgust. "Riley, that kind of talk—"

"Oh, who cares about that _boy_, anyways," you quickly interrupt, getting into the front seat of the car and buckling up. You wait for your husband and son to follow suit, and then meet Riley's eyes in the rear-view mirror. "Riley, why don't you tell us more about this girlfriend of yours. The one that Athena mentioned."

He looks away. "Well…"

"She must be gorgeous, if you're turning a girl like Athena Andropolous down," your husband says smugly, starting the engine.

Through the mirror, you watch as Riley bites his lip. "She's a lot more than that."

.

You have never known your son to stay out past midnight. So things like _imposing_ _a_ _curfew_ have never come up. But glimpsing the clock yet again, you're starting to reconsider.

At last, the front door unlocks and your son shuffles inside. His head is tucked down.

"Your phone was off," you say, arms crossed and emotions bouncing between relief and anger. "You had me extremely worried."

He nods without looking at you. "I know. Sorry."

"Well, you're grounded. For a month."

"Okay."

"And just _where_ did you go?" you ask, voice an aggressive whisper. Your husband is already asleep. "It's two in the morning," you hiss. "You have school tomorrow."

"I went out," Riley says flatly, walking past you and up the stairs.

You scowl as you follow him, even if he doesn't get the benefit of seeing it. "With who? _Him_?"

Your son stops just outside his bedroom door. Slowly he turns halfway around to face you, and it's then that you see how red his eyes are. Like something has clawed right through him.

He doesn't even bother to wipe away the tears that continue to fall. "Who else, Ma?"

You shudder. His voice is like a ghost.

.

The drive is completely silent as you take Riley to school. The past few days have been filled with such chatter that you've forgotten what it's like _not_ to talk to your son. So you try to strike up a conversation about the health initiative he's been planning, or spending more time with Athena, but he barely forms words in response to anything.

"So that girlfriend of yours," you start, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter, "you should invite her over. Why not this weekend…it's your cousin Alcina's wedding, and I think it'd be _nice_ for everyone in the family to see the beautiful girl that you—"

"Mom, please," Riley says hoarsely. "I don't…_not_ _today_, okay? Please."

He has no interest in talking.

Instead, he stares blankly at the air conditioner, wearing the silver watch his father gave him. You see how he keeps scratching his fingernails over the face of it, back and forth, over and over again. You tell him to _stop_ _it_, and he looks down at his hands like they're rebellious foreign appendages. Then he digs his nails into his palm instead. And when you finally pull up to the front of Degrassi, if he's a bit more apprehensive about getting out of the car, you pay it no mind.

You look out the window. No one waits for him this time.

On the sidewalk, you spot Anya; arm linked with a boy who you finally realize is Owen. She sees Riley, and whispers something in Owen's ear before walking over to your son.

She takes Riley's hand, and you smile a little at that.

Says something to him that you can't make out.

Hugs him tightly.

And then looks directly at you. But you won't see the complete disappointment in her eyes. It's just another thing to ignore.

You won't see how your son is no longer happy.

You won't see how, four hours later, Riley will eat his lunch with the chair next to him empty. How he'll pick at his food while another boy watches him quietly from across the cafeteria. How eyes you once considered striking will be equally as red as your son's.

You won't see any of it.

Like averting your eyes from a crash, it's best not to.

.

.


End file.
